Hit
by Canadino
Summary: Because talking to yourself in a cemetery was almost as strange as working in one. Not that nations weren't at all strange, but really... Spain/Romano


**Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.**

Background music: It's a Hit – We Are Scientists

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Hit

He'd lived long enough to see cemeteries for what they were; large areas of land where the deceased were buried. He'd seen enough sunrises to know that ghosts didn't exist and he'd slept through enough evenings to know there was nothing very sentimental about the places. Spain knew all this, but he stood in front of the open metal gates anyway, holding a carefully wrapped bouquet of roses and white lilies in one hand.

There was a cross motif on the gates, a symbol representing all the dead lying dormant beneath this feet in front of him. He passed the nameplate without really taking in the words, stepping across the threshold. Funny things, cemeteries were; he saw the cars behind him, he saw the people behind him talking, but when he was standing in the front steps of the cemetery, he could hardly hear him over the interfering quiet.

He turned away from the society he had left behind the iron gates, his most comfortable walking shoes carefully treading over the uneven cobblestone.

Birds flew overhead, but their calls seemed ethereal; a sound somewhat distance from his ears and he gave them one fleeting glance before they flew by and disappeared in a blue blur.

There was the smell of incense blowing in the breeze, but from what direction, he couldn't pinpoint. It mingled with the scent of wilting flowers. His ears rang; he could see the wild colors of grave markers and green and flowers and he smelled this odd plethora of aroma of cemetery, and he felt the breeze brush against him and the dryness of his mouth, but he couldn't hear anything. He stopped for a moment, searching out for a single noise.

The only thing that answered him was the light murmur of the trees.

"Hello?" He felt something he hadn't felt since he had landed in Florida; there was no one he could see for yards around and a single step felt like he was on crumbling ice. His voice assured him that yes, he had not lost his hearing, but the sound of his bass was quickly lost in the void.

He was aware that just standing in the entranceway of a cemetery talking to himself wasn't the best image he could give, even looking like an unsuspecting human, so he ignored the feeling of uncertainty and ventured deeper along the cobblestone road.

Presently, he could pick out the trickle of water, and as he scanned the bumps of stone and shrubbery, he saw the fountain in the middle – the gentle water flowing endlessly and tossing up temporary rainbows. He made that his destination, gripping the flowers in his hand tighter so they didn't fall out as he strode toward the water.

Maps were useless in a cemetery, really, Spain figured as he passed one. Although he was a nation, he knew that if something dramatic happened somewhere, like a loved one's burial place, you could never shake the memory no matter how hard you tried. He had never personally seen a constant in his life encased in a redwood casket and lowered six feet under, but he could easily pull to mind the various deaths he had seen in the past and if he put the face of a close friend in the place of an overthrown king, his heart lurched.

The force that sparked the life in him was nestled in Madrid, and he was influenced by his people, but he, like his other nations, had been given a body and a soul and a heart. Sometimes the planet's problems made him forget, but when he sat up in bed alone some nights, he was painfully reminded of this.

The fountain lay in front of him, water gushing out from the stone vase of the statuette of a maiden, her intricate stone locks cascading across her face and down her back as he heaved the container over her shoulder and let the water pour out. A child stood behind her, holding up a watering can of his own as water flew out of there as well. It seemed oddly appropriate; individual streams of water meeting each other in a pool just as each individual soul leaves it body and meets up with…

Something Romano would say, probably. Spain dipped a hand in the water, barely flinching at the frigid temperature. Shaking his hand free from the droplets, he watched it for a moment more, hearing the sound of water hitting water.

He strained his ears and thought he heard the tap-tap-tap of typing. He didn't know anyone who would work at a cemetery. He had to be completely quiet or the sound would escape him; picking his steps carefully as not to raise a fuss, he trusted his tracking abilities, turning past marble tombstones, stone angels hovering over the space of the dead. Strange, really, how there was a problem with homelessness when after you died, there was an organized area where your body would spend the rest of its days.

The tapping grew slightly louder, and Spain turned the corner to see Romano sitting in front of a particularly tall grave marker, leaning his back against it as he worked silently, staring at a glowing screen of a laptop. There was a loneliness Spain was quite surprised to see; a lone figure, sitting obscured by the dead to work away quietly. Of course, he had checked with Feliciano earlier that day, although the younger twin had not been clear where Romano had gone. Instinct guided him to a flower shop, and instinct nudged him toward the cemetery.

"It's quiet here," Romano said suddenly, not looking up. "That's why I came here. So I could hear myself think. And I don't need you to start making things noisy."

Spain walked toward him, knowing he was trodding over graves. These were the people who wouldn't shiver, couldn't shiver anymore. Romano didn't owe him a look or any sort of recognition.

"It's suspicious, that's all," Spain said finally, sinking down next to Romano. "Working at a cemetery."

"I _am_ suspicious," Romano murmured, his fingers flying away a thousand words a minute. "The Black Market doesn't rest for anyone, not even a nation."

Spain put the flowers between him, the paper crinkling and the smell of flowers jolting Romano back to the present situation. Looking up, he stared first at the color of red and white, before looking up at Spain, who smiled lightly at him, their shoulders brushing against each other as they sat.

"Who were you here for?" Romano asked with surprise.

"You."

"Why would you get me flowers when I'm not dead? Don't make this a quip about my nation status being in limbo like Prussia. Or this is your subliminal way of telling me to stop my Mafioso business? I don't need you telling me what to do, dammit, you don't own me anymore…" Romano wanted quiet, and Spain was amused to see him being the one to raise a fuss.

"Do you have to be dead for me to give you flowers?" Spain asked, nudging the bouquet toward Romano again.

"I suppose not," Romano sniffed, turning back to his work with a light smattering of pink on his face. "Giuseppe Garibaldi," he said after a moment, tapping the marker he was leaning against. "He brought me to see Feliciano and bring us together to live in the same house. This isn't the same one, of course, but it's the principle of the matter--"

Spain glanced up briefly at the name, before leaning across and catching Romano's lips before any more extraneous explanations could leave them. He felt Romano start against him, but figured it was a good sign that the latter closed the laptop and turned to him. The paper crinkled in protest as the space between them was quickly closed, the flowers silently crushed against them as Romano ran his fingers through Spain's tangled curls. Spain's hand came to a rest on Romano's hip and he broke away in slight surprise as he felt a holster under his hand.

"Never mind," Romano said breezily, catching his breath and straightening up the flowers. "I could never work with you around anyway." He stood, brushing himself off to make him presentable once more. "Leave the flowers," he ordered, as Spain bent over to pick them up again. "The Garibaldis already moved out of the area and the old man deserves them."

"Considerate," Spain remarked, ignoring the glare Romano shot at him.

"Obviously."

Owari

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Note: Hell Week is letting me see the sun again. Ah, I've been listening to It's a Hit by We Are Scientists on repeat for a few hours now and I was moved to write this. Mafia!Romano is sweet. The image of someone writing while leaning against a tombstone has been in my mind for a while and I was trying to write some 8059 with it, but it seemed to lend itself to Hetalia more. Review?


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